“I left her once—I will not do so again.” He lifted his head, stared James straight in the eyes. “It is her choice,” he said. “I will promise nothing but that I will not approach her unless she gives an indication that she would welcome it.”
That suited James well enough. Though he would have preferred to run Kirkland out of London altogether, his very proximity would likely keep Jilly stuck to James’ side as if she had been glued there.
“That will be acceptable,” James said. “Provided you cause her no distress. And I will be watching,” he stressed. “You may depend upon my attendance at each and every event she attends. You will keep your distance.”
“So much as she desires,” Kirkland said sourly, as he climbed to his feet. “I am already a ruined man, Your Grace. There is little you could do to bring me lower than I have been these past three years.” He gave a mocking doff of his hat as he strode toward the door. “I would say it has been a pleasure, but that would be a lie.”

Chapter Ten

Lady Northrupp’s garden party was a casual affair, and one at which it was perfectly acceptable for Jilly to remain in close proximity to His Grace, the Duke of Rushton. She had been trying to think of him that way ever since those stolen kisses in Lord and Lady Lennox’s garden, but somehow her mind kept reverting to James.
James, who had kissed the corner of her mouth with such delicacy, who had cupped her chin in his warm, bare hand, who had groaned into her mouth as if she had slain him with only a kiss. She could hardly bear to look at him for blushing, and she was well beyond the age where a blush would be interpreted as mere maidenly modesty.
It didn’t seem fair that he appeared so unaffected. He stood just a few feet away, chatting with some dark-haired gentleman of his acquaintance, his hand curled around a glass of lemonade. Though Adrian appeared not to have been able to secure an invitation to this particular gathering, she found a peculiar sort of comfort in James’—no, blast it, the duke’s—presence. He did not precisely hover over her, but he seemed to endeavor to be always within reach, like a loyal guard.
Despite the fact that he had yet to say anything to her beyond a casual greeting, they still seemed to be of much speculation to the crowd. He had, after all, made it eminently clear where his interests lay, and any eligible ladies that had entertained the idea of snagging a duke this Season had been forced to admit defeat. Jilly could have told them that was not inclined to take him, but she doubted very much that such a thing would have endeared her to them. Probably it would only make it worse—she had won over them without effort.
She slanted a glance at him, willing herself not to blush, not to dwell on memories of that kiss. Those kisses. She had expected it to be pleasant, but she had certainly not expected it to drive all rational thought from her head. Blast it, she was going to blush again. She turned away, fanned herself with her hand, hoped she could pass it off as a simple flush from the unexpected heat of the day, and sipped her lemonade.
“You are not,” a low voice murmured at her ear, “nearly as subtle as you think you are.”
She choked. “I beg your pardon?” she managed with a wheeze, coughing delicately into her hand.
James—His Grace—laughed lightly as he stepped round to face her, conveniently obscuring her from the view of, if not all, at least the majority of, the other guests. “I mean to say that, at current, you are the biggest danger to your own reputation. If you keep looking at me and blushing—and especially if you keep glancing at my breeches—someone is going to notice and draw conclusions.”
Oh, no. Her eyes closed on a groan of humiliation, and she found herself profoundly grateful for his broad shoulders.